


Off-Kilter

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-13
Updated: 2006-03-13
Packaged: 2018-08-16 05:06:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8088460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Trip gets a gift, and the chance to share some memories. (10/28/2003)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Thanks to TheGrrrl for the story idea and additional suggestions.  
  
Much appreciation to shishi for the beta.  


* * *

Ya gotta understand, I was Scottish when I got there.

Even under ordinary circumstances I can see how someone would hear the name Tucker and take a guess that my people originally came from Scotland. I guess I can see that. But then again, we've been out here so long and sampled so many different brands of shit that this little adventure probably qualifies as "ordinary circumstances".

The Nuckinfuts—and, by the way, the Cap'n has a still extant standing order that we're not to crack even the hint of a smile when saying their name—were a warp drive civilization, barely. After we contacted them they sent out the most rinky-dink, raggedy-assed, piece o' shitmobile I'd seen this side of the furthest nebula. I'm exaggerating for effect, but only just. I swear to God, when they turned around and fired up the engine to head back to the planet, I halfway expected to see a little puff of smoke come out of its backside.

Tell ya the truth though, the "Little Engine That Could" got that race close to my heart even before we'd been formally introduced. It reminded me of this little solar-powered beater I put together back home when I was just a gleam in Starfleet's eye. Not to pat myself on the back or anything, but it's amazing what ya can do with spare parts, junked scraps, and blind ambition. She was a cranky little car, but had a good heart. Zero to 30 k.p.h in your lifetime, but she never failed me when I really needed her. And when she got moody—like if I'd been neglecting her a bit—I swear, she'd always respond when I gave her a little sweet talk.

Like this one time when I was giving a friend a ride home, or rather I would've been if she hadn't been havin' what Grannie used to call "a girlish moment", and absolutely refused to start. Well, even with my friend sitting there next to me I had no choice—

"Come on, baby. Be good to me. I know we haven't been spendin' enough time together, but when we get home I'm gonna give you something to make you feel real good."

Now, my friend's looking at me like—well, he's lookin' at me like I'm not just sweet-talkin' a car, but tryin' to get into its pants as well. I think by that point I'd promised her everything short of a diamond ring and a spring wedding.

"Have you ever tried just checking under the hood?" he says, all smart-alecky smart-ass. And then, as if to prove that we're a team if not exactly a couple, she starts up and off we go.

I learned a lot about a lot of things from that old girl; a lot of it served me well at the Academy, and here on Enterprise too. I guess the point I'm tryin' to make is that just like our new friends, I know what it is to know that you know something, but to have to admit that it isn't really much at all. Confidence in what you know combined with humility in the face of what you don't, are great ways to start the learning process. That's something I've known all along, but only recently started to figure out.

Anyway, if they wanted to believe that I was Scottish I wasn't about to tell them that the only old country I longed for was Florida, and the only body of water any of my ancestors ever crossed was a stretch of gator infested Everglades bayou.

So, that's why I let them believe it. How they came to do so is the start of the story—but let me backtrack a bit.

We're goin' through the whole first contact dance, which I'm hearing over the comm from my post in engineering—

"Hi. We're from Earth and send you greetings and goodwill."

Of course Jon put it better, but you get the idea.

"We are humans; what is the name of your planet, and what do you call yourselves?"

Now, ya have to understand that their responses are goin' through our Universal Translator, to Hoshi, and from her to the captain and bridge crew.

"Captain. Permission to temporarily close the channel."

She barely gets it out cuz she's gaspin' and gurglin' so much that I'm thinkin' the poor girl's having some kind of seizure. And it seems to be confirmed when the captain says—

"Friends. New friends. We seem to be having some sort of extreme technical difficulty in communications. Would you allow us to close the channel for a moment to attend to it?"

They agreed, the channel was closed, and then I hear Hoshi just out a gut buster of a laugh. Well, at least now I know it's not a medical emergency—but what the hell?

"Lieutenant, I'm not sure just what's going on here, but it had better be well worth offending"

"Nuckinfuts," Hoshi says. She's still laughing, but I can hear her trying to clear her throat, regain some semblance of professional composure, and get a second wind.

"Excuse me?"

"Captain, I've checked and rechecked the system. It's a phonetic pronunciation, but an accurate English rendition of what they call themselves. They're Nuckinfuts," she says, and then she let loose with all that second wind gave her.

I'm sure it's Malcolm's voice I hear say—

"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding. Sorry, sir."

"Oh God, if only." And at this point I'm imagining her doubled over beneath her station. Gone. Just gone. Like when you're hysterically laughing at something, pull yourself together, and then all it takes is a word or a look, and it all starts up again even worse than the first time.

I think it's here that Jon had to enforce his role as Captain.

"Ship-wide communication. It appears that our new friends call themselves by a name that some of our command officers find funny. I'm hoping that the rest of the crew will be able to find a more diplomatic response."

That's when that standing order went into effect. Have to tell ya, I wasn't doin' such a great job at diplomacy myself. I'd allowed myself a little smile at the name. A little smile became a big grin, which became something more, and necessitated me going into my office to work it through. While I was in there I could clearly hear members of my staff busting out, and explaining just why this was so damned funny to the more humor deprived, less dirty minded among us.

Speaking of that, people who didn't get it, apparently Phlox heard all the commotion on the bridge and took it upon himself to run up there to help. Even after the full and total implications of the name Nuckinfuts had been explained, he still didn't get it. Maybe he was too much in full-on physician to the rescue mode, maybe because he's Denobulan, but I know for a fact that later on he contacted Malcolm to talk about it, and could barely be understood through what Malcolm described as a " full-body melt down fit of the giggles."

"Oh, brilliant wordplay—absolutely superb. Nuckinfuts—fucking nuts. Delicious. I honestly didn't know that humans were capable of such a thing. You know, on Denobula we have something similar. The most famous is this joke—a woman's first husband, and his third wife's fourth son—now that's HER fourth son—walk into a bar, and the bartender—who happens to a cousin of his SECOND wife—says, well you get where this is going"

Malcolm claims that once you figure out the relationships, the joke's almost funny. I'll take his word for it. Now, where was I?

Right. So it turns out that the Nuckinfuts weren't exactly an advanced race, but they were definitely members of the class. They had a lot of potential, but just needed a little help to realize it. Right then what they needed was an immediate fix to their problems with their air quality control systems that would be a long-term solution. They seemed to have already shot their wad and collective brain-power on the subject. It wasn't exactly my field of expertise, but I'm nothing if not ingenious. A few spare parts that I didn't really need, a few techniques that they just hadn't thought of, and they were up and running again.

In the meantime, the Jon got to play diplomat, Malcolm got to play with their weaponry systems, and Hoshi got to stay on the ship until she could be relied upon to keep it together. I didn't really see anything of her untilbut I should tell you where the whole Scottish thing came from.

The Nuckinfuts were pleased as punch to have our help, and I was the apple of their eye. They even wanted to have a banquet in my honor, and give me a present to boot. It was then that we realized what was really goin' on—nothin' sinister, just weird. It turned out that they'd just recently received transmissions of Star Trek. Ya know, that 20th century, science fiction, space travel television show. The Nuckinfuts were pretty far out there—geographically and otherwise—so it'd taken awhile to reach them. But once there, the Nucks seemed to think they were some kinda documentation rather than entertainment. I know it sounds stupid, but the Nuckinfuts weren't. At worst they were victims of circumstance. Think about it, what context did they have? What other way of thinking to act as contrast? How do you know what reality is unless you have something to compare it to? After having spent all these years out in the middle of the vacuum of space, I can't say enough about the value of perspective. Their response was to come up with this mythology or something wherein the current crew of Enterprise were descendants of the original one. Okay, so they weren't even come close, but ya can't fault them for ingenuity.

All of a sudden a lot of things began to make sense; why every other person I met asked me if I'd like a nice hot plate of haggis, why the captain had so many green-skinned, flirtatious females fightin' for his attention, and T'Pol—it looked like she had an entire convention of Nuckinfuts gathered around her, all wearing fake pointy ears, throwin' some weird hand sign thing, and asking her about Pon Farr. Then there was this sheepish lookin' little guy hangin' way back in the crowd wearin' a red jersey and what looked like a spiked leather collar with a leash attached to it. I didn't ask. Word of Jon was that we were to just go along with it and he'd take care of the clean up later.

Good enough for me. I got a banquet held in my honor, and a real thoughtful gift. It was a kilt, kind of. Not the plaid or tartan kind, but one that was made for my needs as an engineer. It was done in the same basic pattern, but out of a heavyweight canvas like material, with loops for tools, and pockets outside and in for all those other little necessities that might come in handy. It was a well-constructed piece of work, not that I'd actually wear it. But, apparently I was goin' to, cuz Jon says—

"Trip, they're not just giving you something to stuff away in your closet. They don't expect to see you use it right here, but I think that at least trying it on would be an appropriate gesture."

And then Malcolm pipes in—

"Oh, yes, absolutely—too rude to do otherwise. And you have to wear it in front of them to show them that I like it. I mean, that you do. Right now."

Then he shuffled me off to our room, practically fannin' my ass to scoot me along.

Now, at this point Malcolm and I had been together for a while—not just together as in "on the same ship", but together like in "in the same bed". Once word got 'round people started comin' up to me sayin' that they wouldn't have thought I'd be interested in him, any "him", meaning interested in that way. And by the way, just what the hell does it mean to "look Gay"? And what the fuck does any of it have to do with what you feel for one specific person?

Funny thing was that afterwards we became very popular. We started gettin' invited to all these little, cozy, cabin -couple get -togethers. And Malcolm seemed to know everybody. Again, I didn't ask. Oh shit, yes I did. But he swore to me that the only reason he knew about them was that now and again they'd invite some selected singles to their evenings. And then he told me that the only time he got lucky was when we got together. Well now, what could I say to that except—"C'mere."

But still, I had to ask myself how there were there so many people on the ship interested in same-sex space exploration, and I never noticed? But then, I'd never really looked. It's amazing what you can see once you open your eyes. Like, at one of 'em, Hoshi shows up with T'Pol. Now that one threw me for such a loop that Malcolm had to put an arm around my shoulder and lean over to say—

"Close your mouth, sweet. If we were on Earth, you'd be attracting flies."

Later on he connected the dots to make a picture even my relatively virginal eyes could see. Next time, Hoshi shows up with Butler. Next thing, T'Pol walks in. I'm tellin' ya,—you ain't never really seen a cat fight until you've seen one with a Vulcan in it—especially a Vulcan who's just found out that her relationship isn't "exclusive"

Soon after I told Jon about us, and—well whatever reaction I'd expected, it sure as sin wasn't the one I got. He just heard me out, put down the padd he'd been reading, and got this kinda goofy grin on his face—

"Oh Trip, I saw you two getting together from the moment you set eyes on each other. Of all the possible pairings on this ship, you and Malcolm are Enterprise's one true couple. I'm just glad that you two finally figured it out, and I got to watch. Now get the hell outta here, I wanna get back to my story. It's a work in progress, and she's finally posted a new part."

Why don't we just leave that one alone and go back to the land of the Nuckinfuts.

Malcolm and I were headed back to our room—one for the both of us. We asked—they gave. Whatever they lacked in technological capabilities was made up for by their tolerance, acceptance, and general ability to mind their own damn business. No questions asked, no answers required. I really loved those people.

But when we get there, Malcolm starts tearing my uniform off like we're in for the night.

"Baby, please don't misunderstand, but I've still got a personal appearance to make."

"Of course, silly person. I'm just trying to help get you dressed for your big night. They're not going to wait forever, you know," he says, "and neither will I," he adds under his breath.

And then he blushed. Yeah, Malcolm blushes, not when he's embarrassed, but because he's really turned on. Or maybe it's when he's embarrassed because he's turned on. I don't know. Maybe it's one of those—upside down, in through the backdoor, every which way but direct—things about the way he is. I'm still looking forward to finding out.

I got another story. Don't ever tell him that I told you this, or I'm gonna have to spend the remaining part of this mission checking the toilet before I sit down. Anyway, even though I know it's indiscreet, I really love remembering it, and I can trust you—right?

It's really early on in our relationship—by that I mean our relationship in terms of standing on the verge of gettin' it on—are you with me? We're in my quarters, sittin' on the couch, makin' out like crazy, kissin' each other like mad. My tongue could've served as a witness to his dental record. I'm talkin' hands through the hair—

"Ah, baby, baby, baby."

Along the body—

"Oh God, Trip. Do that again."

And across the boundaries—

"Stop. Just for a moment."

Well, almost.

We'd been goin' at it for a good half-hour—a very good half-hour—that night. And he'd been opening and closing his legs like one of those moving gates on a miniature golf course, but I could never quite co-ordinate my shots with his slice to get a hand in edgewise.

Sometime later we talked about that night and he told me that he'd really wanted to make love to me, that he'd been wanting to for weeks but was afraid to make the first move. He said that he thought that if he did, and we had sex, it'd be the big reality- check that I'd taken another man for a lover. Yeah. Like I wasn't gettin' that reality-check poked against my stomach every time I gave him a hug and a kiss goodnight. But I knew what he meant.

The thing was that it wasn't our relationship, but that phase in every relationship that had always been a little awkward for me. Goin' from makin' out to making love. You're gettin' to know someone you already know in a whole new way. It's like making a first impression all over again. I had a little league coach who used to tell us that the longest distance we'd ever travel was between third base and home. Now I wonder if he was talkin' about baseball or sex. Then again, I always did wonder about that guy.

So basically it's like I was ready to go, but stumbling around looking for my keys, and Malcolm was ready as well, but waiting for me to open the door for him. What a couple of sad, silly fools we were—sittin' there holdin' each other, afraid to let go and scared to move forward. Then I started thinkin' that if Malcolm were one of my engines I'd know just what to do. Remember those sweet talkin' skills I told you about? I'd found them to work just as well on a reluctant warp drive as they had on that cranky old car of mine. Maybe they'd work on Malcolm too. God knows that man is the personification of a well-toned engine.

I turned to face him, real slow, looking into his eyes all the while. I had no idea what I was gonna say—shit, I never do—but if there was ever a moment that called for something said from the heart instead of the head, this was one of 'em. Then, I just got this sudden craving for his neck, like skin hunger. I wasn't goin' vampire or anything, I just really wanted to experience that part of his body. Just dig in and stay awhile. He sees where I'm goin' with this and leans his head over to let me. I remember sucking the skin at the base of his neck. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but strong enough to let him know I meant it. Then a lot of slow, firm kisses with soft lips and just a little tongue, all the way up. When I got to his ear, I whispered—

"God, you taste so good, I just wanna lick the flavor off your neck."

Yeah, I know it sounds kinda silly now. Guess ya just had to be there. Actually, it felt kinda silly then too. It must've made some kind of impression though, cuz when I moved back to see his reaction, Malcolm seemed to be doin' his best impersonation of an English rose. He was flushed all over, but especially at his lips, all open and plump and pink. And he was makin' these soft, swift, sweet breaths through them, and then his tongue comes out to wipe them.

"Ya know, that color looks good on you. Do ya wear it all over?"

"No idea. But you're welcome to find out."

Let's just say that the rest of that evening came out quite well. But whatever happened to the Nuckinfuts?

Oh, right.

So I let him tear my uniform off, but I was still at a loss.

"No clue here, what do I wear with a kilt?"

"A simple white shirt would be fine. If you don't have one, I do."

"Actually, I was less concerned about what goes on top than with what goes underneath."

"Oooh, love. Nothing at all."

And I'm sure that he really did say "Oooh" and not "Oh." That's when I knew that this public event we were about to attend would soon after become a private screening. The only question was exactly when one turned into the other, and that was up to Malcolm.

"But, what do I do when I sit down? Everyone's gonna see"

"Keep your legs together for the sake of decorum," Malcolm says, "and know that later on you can spread them for the sake of me."

Of course that does nothing to make me feel better, or anything at all toward relieving what is now a growing hard-on.

Next thing I know one of the green-skinned females sent out for the captain's pleasure is knocking on our door-

"I don't mean to intrude, but are you coming?"

And of course Malcolm just had to say—

"Not quite yet, but soon."

"Malcolm, you are an evil man."

"And you're a quite fetching one. Have a look at yourself in the mirror."

I wouldn't have used to word "fetching", but I did look pretty damn good. My legs have always been one of my better features—hey, that's what everyone says—and the kilt was just long enough to give a peek without giving away the whole show. All I had were my Starfleet boots, but they actually kinda made the outfit work, in a perverse sorta way. The white shirt Malcolm let me borrow was a little small. I couldn't button it up all the way so a fair amount of my chest was showin'. Actually, Malcolm was right. I did look in fact look rather fetching.

"Malcolm, tell me the truth—does this kilt make my ass look fat?"

"Okay, Stud McMuffin, you've had your close-up. Let's go."

Man, I didn't know if I was walkin' to a ceremony or through a prostate exam. His hand was all up in my stuff like I have no memories to describe, but made memories that will live on forever. Over, under, and all around—he worked that kilt, and my ass, like he was a master pianist and it was his keyboard. I didn't mind at all, except for the fact that the finale would have to wait until I'd sat through the concert. Finally, I just pushed him up against a wall—

"Malcolm, do you wanna go back to the room and fuck, or what?"

"I'm going to take "or what", and that's my final answer. We've got a ceremony to attend."

"Then pull you're your hand out from under my kilt, your pinky outta my ass, and let's go."

"Oooh. Feisty now."

I made a lot of decisions that night, and one of them was that I never wanted to hear Malcolm say "Oooh" again unless my dick was up his butt.

Anyway, Hoshi was allowed to attend the dinner after all. But only after heartfelt promises to keep it together and T'Pol's absolute assurance that she'd keep a watchful eye. I didn't even bother to tell Jon what that was about. Then I saw her, and she saw me, and the sight of me in my kilt seemed to be just the thing necessary to set off the very reason she'd been kept on the ship in the first place. She just erupts.

"This is just so Nuckinfuts," she says, waving her hand in defeat as she walks toward the shuttle. "Beam me up, Scotty. I'm outta here."

Once and for all, what the hell is haggis? And why do I have a feeling that I don't want to know, especially when it's being served on a planet that produces only the barest resemblance of anything that goes into something that I probably wouldn't eat if made authentically?

Nothing puts me in a worse mood than bad food. Well, nothing except sittin' at the honored guests table, tryin' to make the best of a bad thing, while Malcolm's tryin' to get cute by slippin' his hand under my skirt, kilt—ah, shit, whatever. I was just at the point of not givin' a flyin' fuck out of a bishop's ass about any of it when I made my second decision of the evening. I decided that as a Starfleet officer I would wear a kilt in public, I would be laughed at by a subordinate, and I would put a smile on my face while I ate some dick cheese crap that Porthos wouldn't even sniff—but there was no way in hell that I was gonna let any of it be associated with a handjob from Malcolm. For the first time in our relationship I forcibly removed his hand from my dick.

"Malcolm, ya wanna save that one for a rainy day. And when I look up, all I'm seeing are clear skies. Get what I'm talking about?"

The next thing that matters is Jon sayin' his goodnights, the Nuckinfut ambassador passing along his goodwill, and the door to our room being closed. Then Malcolm was down on his knees, my kilt up around my chest, and my dick finally gettin' the attention it'd been wanting all night.

He lets it fall over his head, like he's a photographer using one of those old old-fashioned cameras with a heavy black drop cloth. Like a movable darkroom that lets you focus on your work wherever you are. And he is focused. When I look down, I can see his head making a mound in the fabric. He's still as he does this thing he does—rolling his tongue along my dick from top to bottom. It feels nice. Real nice. That's when I feel the need to crouch down a little so I can pump into his mouth. He likes that. He loves it when I fuck his mouth. And that's when he starts to move, and that still mound becomes some kind of living bas relief moving back and forth on my body. And that's when I hear this sound. Some call it impolite, or indelicate. It's the sound when a vacuum is released, it's the sound of him sucking my dick, and I love it.

I love the fact that it happens; I love the fact that when it happens I get the chance to move and touch the back of his throat and let him know that even though I'm wearing a kilt, He Is Sucking My Dick. I take a deep breath at that, and he pulls his head out.

"All I've been able to think about all day is you fucking me," he says, stroking my cock to keep it hard.

Yeah. Like I need it.

This moment could call for delicacy. I could stroke his cheek, and whisper sweet nothings, but all I really want to do is look under his hood and find his spot.

"Get your pants off, and your ass on the bed."

I gotta give it to Malcolm—when it comes down to the real thing, ya don't have to give the same instruction twice. In a trice he's bare-assed, ass up, and ready on the bed, spreading his legs for more before he's even gotten any.

"Pull up your kilt, pull out your dick, and fuck me right—right now."

And he's pumping his hips up and down, and back and forth, and I can see his ass begging for what his mouth has asked for.

Mama didn't raise no fools. I know home when I see it, as well as the location of the lube. I just slap that shit on, no time to warm it up. This one is hot enough already. But I do take the time to slip a finger into Malcolm. One of us has got to have a head on his shoulders. Hot doesn't mean no consequences. Anyway, I love this part. He wiggles around so sweet around my hand. He starts to make these sounds that I know will only get better as I work them out of him. I like knowing his body in a way other than my dick. I like feeling him through fingerprints.

When he wants more, when he groans for it, it's not my dick I give, but another finger. I want to stretch him, I want to hear him feel what I've done. I want to hear him suck in breath to take me in. I want him to know—not yet. And when he moans for it, it's almost time. It's when he's past want, or desire. I need to give him what we both need.

He so got off on this damn kilt that I let it drop over his back. I won't be able to see what I'm doing, but we've done this often enough that I can feel my way through.

"Oh God. Fuck me, Trip. You're fingers felt grand, but I want your dick."

I knew that would get him off. I put my hands on his hips. I want to touch him. His body is trembling beneath my fingers. My fingers are trembling on him.

I need one hand, and take it off him to guide myself. The first touch is the deepest, and the hardest. It always hurts just a little bit before it starts to feel good. But that's just the fact. Just a little bit 'til the pain passes, and everything else starts.

And then his hips are pushing back onto me, he is on me and we are on. His ass grasps me, and pulls me in, and suddenly I'm the one crying out to God. A few minutes of random impulse gives way to something else. A rhythm that works for us both.

Long ago, I'd stopped looking for his sweet spot. I didn't need to look, it would find me, and Malcolm would arrange himself so as to take full advantage.

As much as that kilt provided, it had run its course. I pull it aside because I need to see what it had covered. I need to see my man's ass taking my dick. So beautiful, so open—and that's all it takes.

"Fuck, baby. I'm about to come."

"Yes. Yes, please."

God. He's like a school kid askin' for a lollipop. And I can't deny him. I'm not just coming. I'm coming inside Malcolm- deep inside -deeper than I can touch. Before I can even really think about what that means, I'm collapsed onto him. When I've got enough breath to talk I ask him if he came too.

"Oooh, yes."

I believe I earlier stated the conditions for further utterances of "Oooh."

So that's the unexpurgated version of that particular adventure. It'll make it into my memoirs, but in a greatly edited version. As for the rest of our encounters with the Nuckinfuts, well, you'll have to ask Mayweather about the borscht incident.


End file.
